


every vine climbing and blossoming

by betony



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28053303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: Tewkesbury helps out with a case. Enola objects.(Astoundingly, it all works out.)
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 7
Kudos: 121
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	every vine climbing and blossoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harborshore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/gifts).



> "Every flower about a house certifies to the refinement of somebody. Every vine climbing and blossoming tells of love and joy." - Robert G. Ingersoll, 1833-1899.

The testimonies of boys' own adventures aside, it really is rather more difficult to shimmy your way up to a window than to climb a few steps to a treehouse; Tewkesbury knows this from multiple unfortunate attempts, most of which ended with skinned knees and scoldings. Enola, unsurprisingly, excels at this skill as she does so many others. Tewkesbury doubts anyone else would have known to listen for the scrape of her boots against brick, her muttered curses, the faint tumble of rocks; but half a decade of begrudging friendship (on her part) and unmitigated worship (on his) have trained him well. He smiles, even though he knows she won't be able to see him in the dark, and settles on his side, the bed-covers warm around him.

There is a quiet shriek, as the sash is opened, and a quieter thud, and then that fond familiar whisper in his ear: "You blasted, blooming idiot! What _were_ you thinking?" 

Enola, for all he adores her, is in a possession of a rotten temper at the best of times.

Tewkesbury opens his eyes, and debates whether he ought to appear repentant. No, he decides, she knows him too well for that; and he makes no effort to disguise the grin that always accompanies her arrival. He says, mildly: "I thought: well, Enola seems to be struggling with her case."

"Enola," retorts she, gloriously scathing, "is doing no such thing. Or at least not enough to warrant you going off, addlepated, and loudly announcing your support for the Children's Charter to every two-penny hack who'd publish it for you."

"The children of England are often unsafest in their own homes. I should know. It's well past time the government did something regarding that."

"And is that worth your--" Enola stops, huffs, looks at his face and relents somewhat. "Be that as it may, there is a murderer loose in Parliament, with clear objections to any reformers. Or has that slipped your mind?"

If it's his politics she objects to, that's long been a matter of public record. But even Tewkesbury can only intentionally play the dunce so long. He sighs. "There's no certainty they'll come for me."

"None except the five poison-pen letters you've received in the last day and a half--"

So he'd managed to conceal a whole three from her. Tewkesbury allows himself a rare moment of pride. 

"--Not to mention the seven outright threats against your life I found. One in particular minding you to keep an eye on what you eat, another on where you sleep." 

Or perhaps not. "Well, if it's food you're worried about, they'll have to make it through Cook first. Mother has us all on a diet of boiled vegetables for our health that could only benefit from a sprinkling of arsenic." 

A fatal mistake: he's tried too hard to play his hand and divert her away. Enola smiles, satisfied at his stupidity, and sits down on the side of the bed. "I am not, in fact. I've found I'm more concerned about that cup of tea I saw you sipping outside the chambers of the House of Lords, that exactly matched--if I am not mistaken, and I rarely am--the crockery the other victims were found beside. Am I correct in assuming you've escaped death once already tonight?"

Tewkesbury makes a face, and, with the dignity due his ancestors, surrenders. "Digitalis," he admits. The symptoms had been just vague enough to be suspicious, but he'd recognized the taste from the first sip, once an anonymous servant had pressed it into his hand in the retiring rooms. Little surprise, too: to have toxic effects, they must have concentrated it terribly. He'd had the sense to press his hand to his chest and complain of the expected palpitations, but upon his escape, they must have noticed his almost-full cup. Hence, unquestionably, why Enola was here to take him to task for it.

"Digitalis." Enola at the moment was frowning, but no longer at him, which seemed a step in the right direction. "And you haven't any idea who, or how they acquired it?"

"How," says Tewkesbury, "I imagine by plucking it at the roadside, as rest of us might. Foxglove grows on every hill and valley in this country. As for who--Enola, you know I leave the difficult work to you!"

"No," she grumbles, but with less rancor than before. Identifying the agent of murder has pleased her, or at least confirmed some prior suspicion. "You only go and put your fool self in danger that I need to save you from. So tell me, Cecil Alistair Dudley, Viscount Imbecile, oh-so-brilliant Marquess of Basilwether, what will you do when they realize you've not been poisoned after all, and come for you?"

As airily as he can, Tewkesbury tries to say, _I thought I'd lie back and trust in_ _my gallant lady to save the day_ , but too late; Enola's yanked the covers down, the knife she keeps in her boot at all times unsheathed. 

"That," she says, "is all it would take for--oh!"

He looks down, wondering what's drawn her attention, and then has to laugh. Enola is staring, wide-eyed, at the steel-boned corset above his nightshirt--enough, he assumes, to deflect any stray bullets a madman might aim through the window. "A fellow can't keep raiding suits of armor for protection," he reminds her, "and besides, this came recommended by the best."

But Enola isn't paying attention; even now, she reaches up a finger to trace the upper edges of the corset. Tewkesbury's mouth goes dry; he notices that her eyes are very black and very bright, and then he hasn't sense enough to notice anything at all, save the feel of her. The knife falls to the floor, and then her hands are about his shoulders, and her lips on his. Enola kisses as she does everything else: with extraordinary talent and a great deal of passion, and he can feel her laughing--he hopes with pleasure--against his mouth.Tewkesbury has only a moment to decide that a mob of Tories might bloody well guillotine him on the morrow and he'd still die a happy man, however, before Enola pulls away. He presses his lips together, the better to suppress words that might be an apology, or worse, a plea. The one relief he has is that Enola doesn't go far, only retreating to the other end of the bed once more.

"I suppose," she says, "if you're so bent on making yourself a target for assassination, it's the least I can do to stay the night to keep the watch alongside you. Only--" she takes a deep breath "the first thing you should know is this: I shan't be a Marchioness, now or ever. It would make Mycroft entirely too pleased."

Tewkesbury, who remembers all too well encountering the man at Westminister, can't say he's surprised to hear this. Or even unsympathetic. He resigns himself to being another tool of use in Enola's calling, greater than his own--and yet there was still that glint in her eyes, unexpected but not entirely unfamiliar. Tewkesbury dares hope. 

"The second is this: I expect you to make the efforts I go to on your part worth my while. For years now, I've wanted--well, wanted to--The least a gentleman might do is repay his savior, if I make myself clear?"

She does. Oh, how she does. He's wanted, too, and never dreamed it might all be so simple. Tewkesbury forces his voice very nearly steady when he asks, "Indeed. Ought I to bear anything else in mind?"

"Only this." Enola smile twitches further upwards, into a smirk. "Do keep the corset."

He laughs, and reaches for her. 


End file.
